


Somewhere Inside

by chemm80



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-29
Updated: 2010-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam fell into Hell, but he never fell out of love with his brother.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Written during the brief period when we knew Sam came back, but before we knew he was soulless. In other words, it was Jossed almost before it was posted. *sighs* What can you do?

After Sam came back, he lasted three weeks.

Or at least that’s how long the calendar said it had been. Eventually time caught up to him, or maybe he caught up with it—time’s different up here, like Dean said, and Sam’s not nearly as sure of its passage as he used to be. For those first few weeks Sam filled the long, weird hours with research, reading, picking Bobby’s brain—looking for answers to why he was back topside. Again.

Why it’s always about him.

Sam really wanted to know the answer to that question—he still wants to know—but he also figured that the _why_ of it didn’t matter nearly as much as _where_ Sam was. The really important thing was that he stayed away from Dean.

Sam told himself that it was enough that he knew Dean was okay. Bobby had kept an ear to the ground like always, and to all appearances Dean had done exactly what he’d promised Sam he would. He went to Lisa, she took him in, and they lived happily ever after. That’s how it’s supposed to end, right?

Except Sam needed to see them. See _him_. Which is how he found himself standing under a sputtering streetlight in the middle of the night, three weeks out of the Cage, watching Dean eat and drink and…live his life. Sam refused to take that away from him.

When he finally sees Dean again face to face almost a year later, well, yeah…he tells Dean he did it for him. Hell, that’s what he tells himself most days—that he stayed away to let Dean live his life, but that’s not true, not entirely.

The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him…Whoever…is that Sam wanted it that way. It was easier not to feel, not to have to think about the way things used to be and never would be again. Anything else hurts too much.

***

In the summer of 1997, they were living in Eureka, Missouri. Sam was fourteen and tall enough to look Dean in the eye, thanks to a six-month growth spurt of epic proportions.

Dean was still larger than life.

In June of that year, the newspapers reported that the cleanup of nearby dioxin-contaminated Times Beach, Missouri, was completed. Dean, naturally, couldn’t have cared less. The local Six Flags amusement park boasted the second longest rollercoaster in the world, briefly. Dean was a little more interested in that, but what he really cared about that summer was the fact that only half an hour away from them stood the Riverport Amphitheatre (briefly famous a few years back, thanks to the inimitable Axl Rose.) Still, the dubious historical significance of the Riverport Riot wasn’t what had Dean riled up.

Dean cared because of Ozzfest.

“Black Sabbath, Sammy…right here, it’s like…half an hour away! The original line-up, or mostly…I mean, that’s…shit!”

Sam snorted a laugh and Dean grinned back at him, reached across the front seat of the Impala and ruffled Sam’s hair. Sam really hated that, wouldn’t take it from Dean normally without at least a token protest, but his brother practically speechless with excitement wasn’t something Sam got to see very often—wasn’t sure he ever had seen it, in fact—not to this extent, anyway.

Dean hummed and tapped his hand against the steering wheel, the Impala rumbled down the expressway, and Sam was as happy as he’d ever been in his life.

It wasn’t the first time Dean had taken him along someplace, of course—Dean was careful about leaving Sam alone, almost never did it, despite Sam’s protests that he wasn’t a little kid anymore—but there was something different this time. More like…like Sam was there because Dean wanted him to be, not tagging along, but part of the group, even if it was only a group of two. Sam liked that a lot.

Sam was excited but a little uncertain as they pulled into the parking lot of the huge arena. He felt completely out of place, and he hunched his shoulders, like he was afraid that someone was going to come along any minute and point at him, yell, “You don’t belong here!” or something, but Dean marched to the gate like he owned the place.

Sam shadowed him as closely as he could manage without actually touching him. He noted the price on the tickets as they went through the line and wondered how Dean had managed to get the money—or even access to the tickets, for that matter—but his complete awe when they got inside the amphitheatre drove the question from his mind.

They didn’t have seats, just space on the grass, but Sam suspected that was just as well, didn’t think Dean would be able to sit down anyway, and wasn’t sure he wanted to either. It was early evening, the bands had been playing since around noon, and the energy inside the bowl of the amphitheatre was palpable. Sam felt like they’d walked into one of those sci-fi force fields or something, shivering as he felt gooseflesh tighten the skin of his shoulders and arms.

The music flowed out from the gigantic speakers like a tidal wave, washing over them and echoing off the sides of the big bowl, thumping through Sam’s sternum and filling him up, like it was coming from inside him somehow. He could hardly breathe.

Dean scanned the scene and grinned at Sam, smacking him in the chest with the flat of his palm like he was trying to jumpstart Sam’s heart (which okay, he kind of felt like he needed) and Sam staggered backward.

“Told you,” Dean yelled over the noise. “Awesome!”

Sam nodded his agreement that it was all indeed awesome, and they waded into the thick of it, Dean pulling Sam along in his wake. The noise from the crowd was barely audible beside the explosively loud music, smell of sweat competing with the occasional wisp of sweet smoke that drifted by—it was overwhelming. Between all the bodies pressing against him and Dean grabbing at his t-shirt to keep him close, Sam felt kind of mauled by the time they got near the front of the grassy area, to a spot that finally seemed to satisfy Dean.

Sam wasn’t particularly a metal fan—he liked grungy alternative when he had a choice, which wasn’t that often—but hearing it live like that was pretty cool. The crowd was so into it, and Dean…he had this delighted, little-kid look on his face, and Sam realized suddenly—this was all completely new to him, sure—but Dean hadn’t done this all that much, either. It made Sam’s heart swell, the feeling that Dean was finally treating him as an equal, a friend, instead of a pain-in-the-ass little brother.

Sam’s attention was held for several minutes by the group currently on the stage —Marilyn Manson, if he wasn’t mistaken—and when he looked for Dean, he was standing a little too close to a moderately cute girl with long blonde hair. She was speaking into Dean’s ear, the only effective way of communicating over the noise. Her sizeable breasts were nearly falling out of her low-cut top, and she smiled distractedly at Sam when she saw him watching.

Sam looked away, feeling awkward, and refocused his attention on the stage for a few minutes. When he checked again Dean was gone and Sam panicked for a second, until he realized that Dean and the girl were still there, just sitting on the grass beside him.

Then he looked again, at the joint they were passing back and forth between them, and Sam felt _really_ awkward now, not sure whether he should sit down, too, or what, and he shifted his gaze uncertainly in order not to stare at them.

After a second he felt Dean tug at the leg of his jeans and Sam jerked his head to look at him, then flopped down into a cross-legged sprawl when Dean motioned for him to sit. Dean held the joint out to Sam with a “you want to?” look on his face, and Sam’s eyes widened, unsure.

He was a little nervous about it to be honest, but he knew this was a big deal, something he couldn’t just blow off. Dean’s expression was completely matter-of-fact except for the slightly too-long look he gave Sam, but Sam knew this was Dean treating him like he was old enough to decide for himself whether or not to try it. Sam couldn’t let that pass him by, even if he had no idea what he was doing. It couldn’t be that bad.

Sam took the joint from Dean, held it gingerly between two fingers and sealed his lips around it, inhaled. He tried to hold the smoke in his lungs like he knew he was supposed to, aware that Dean was watching him, but it started to burn and he made a weak hacking noise, coughed out a little puff of smoke. He couldn’t hear Dean laughing at him but he could see it well enough as Dean pounded him on the back, and Sam laughed a little, too. It was okay. Dean was making it okay.

Sam’s next two attempts were a bit more successful and he relaxed a little. When he glanced back a while later, the girl had lain down on the grass and Dean was propped on one elbow next to her, kissing her slow and lazy. Sam’s gaze was drawn by the sight of Dean’s free hand flexing and curling against her stomach, fondling and stroking. Sam watched for a long time, focused on the tan of Dean’s restless fingers contrasted against the white of her blouse, until finally Sam let his eyes travel up the girl’s body and come to rest on their two mouths, the way they pressed slickly together, shimmering wet in the low light.

The two of them were getting messier with it by the minute, until their lips were parting enough that Sam caught glimpses of their tongues as they writhed together. A surge of arousal made Sam catch his breath, reminded him that he shouldn’t be staring at them, no matter how little they seemed to care that he was watching.

Sam took a deep breath and turned his focus inward, trying to decide if he was feeling any effects from the drug. It did seem to make the music more enjoyable, Sam thought, sort of slowed it down so that he could hear each note a little better. He thought it was screwing with his time sense too, because when Sam realized the concert was starting to wind down, it seemed way too soon.

There was an abrupt movement to his right, and when Sam looked over to see what it was, Dean was already on his feet. Sam’s first thought was that Dean wanted to leave, but then he realized there was more going on.

A strange guy had hold of the girl’s elbow and Dean was facing off with him, posture aggressive. Most of the people nearest them were watching with expressions ranging from interested to annoyed, and Sam sat frozen, not sure what to do.

The music crashed to a halt and the cheering from the crowd swelled, but it wasn’t loud enough that Sam couldn’t easily hear the little drama being played out next to him.

“Let go of me, Jake! Uh!…what are you…” the girl said, pulling against the guy’s grasp on her arm, wincing slightly.

“Hey, hey, listen…” Dean started. Dean advanced on them and the man bristled at him, despite the fact that Dean had about half a foot and probably twenty or thirty pounds on him.

“You puttin’ your hands on her, you piece of shit, huh?” Jake said to Dean, and Sam’s mouth opened in shock when the guy laid his palm on Dean’s chest and shoved.

Dean’s face darkened and Sam tensed, waiting for Dean’s next move, but Dean just righted himself and moved in closer to the guy, sort of looming over him, in a posture that Sam recognized as dangerous, even if Jake apparently didn’t.

“You might wanna save some of that mouth for the dick you’re gonna be sucking later,” Dean said calmly and Jake’s mouth dropped open.

Dean peered at him, pretending to consider, then shook his head.

“I don’t know, man, I’d give it about a seven, but you’re gonna have to do better than that to impress the Russian judge.”

Jake boggled at him and Sam breathed an incredulous little chuckle. Then Sam noticed the bigger guy standing behind Jake, glowering.

Sam decided it was time to make a show of force for their team, probably would have figured it out before if he wasn’t still a little groggy from the weed. He struggled awkwardly to his feet and unfolded to his full height, positioned himself just off Dean’s left shoulder. Dean darted a glance Sam’s way and Sam smiled slightly at Jake when the shorter man had to tip his head back a little to look at him, eyes widening.

The girl chose that moment to sidle over behind Sam and Dean, and Sam could tell that the argument was essentially over. Dean just smirked as Jake visibly wilted, frowning. Jake looked from Dean to Sam nervously, not quite meeting anyone’s eye.

“Well, you…you’re a dick…sucker…” Jake said.

“Guess that’s what a third-grade education buys you in Missouri,” Dean said.

Shaking his head in mock-sadness, he turned his back on Jake and the other guy, put his arm around the girl’s shoulder and started walking her toward the exit.

Sam was shaking a little as he followed them, couldn’t resist sneaking a glance over his shoulder to check on the two men, but they were just standing there, watching them go. Sam couldn’t decide if he’d done a good thing or not by standing up like that—he half thought he might have ruined Dean’s night by heading off the fistfight—but when he looked at Dean, he was grinning.

They saw Jamie—which turned out to be the girl’s name, and Sam was a little embarrassed he hadn’t known it before, but then, he hadn’t been the one probing her tonsils with his tongue—to her car. Sam thought that the time it took Dean to make sure she was safely inside the vehicle was a bit excessive, though, and Sam might or might not have cleared his throat a half dozen times or so while he was pretending not to watch.

Dean finally shut Jamie’s door behind her and turned toward Sam, giving him a full-bore cheesy grin, bright as headlights on high-beam and just as blinding. Sam rolled his eyes and Dean abruptly flung an arm around Sam’s neck, pulling him toward the car with his head tucked against Dean’s side. He managed to scrub a fucking _painful_ noogie into Sam’s scalp before he could get away, too, the bastard, but by the time Sam flopped down into the Impala’s passenger seat, he was grinning so hard his face hurt.

The drive home wasn’t that long and it wasn’t like they’d been drinking, so Sam was surprised when Dean pulled off the highway about halfway back to the house, down a sort of country lane that wound into a bunch of trees. The woods opened out into a little clearing and Dean killed the engine and got out, sauntered to the front of the Impala and parked his butt on the front of the hood.

Obviously this wasn’t your typical pit stop to pee, but whatever its purpose, Sam was glad of it. It wasn’t that late, and there was no one waiting for them at the house, and that was the last place Sam wanted to go right now anyhow. The day had been too good to let it end yet.

Sam got out and heaved himself up onto the car next to Dean, who was watching the stars and looking relaxed. They sat in silence, listening to the engine creak as it cooled, the crickets singing in the grass. Sam took a deep breath of the warm, damp air and let it out, feeling light and happy in spite of the oppressive humidity. A line from a cheesy old movie popped into his head and wouldn’t leave.

_Today. Today is my best day._

Like he was reading Sam’s mind, Dean asked, “Have a good time?”

Sam smiled and nodded, shifting his weight onto one hip and raising his other foot to kick at a rock on the ground next to Dean’s boot.

“Yeah. Thanks, Dean.”

“No problem, kid,” Dean answered, then snorted softly. “That little shithead Jake, like a goddamned Chihuahua, or something…didn’t have a clue who he was fuckin’ with, huh?” He paused. “You did good back there,” he finished quietly.

“I didn’t do anything,” Sam said, despite the way his heart was about to burst out of his chest at the praise, didn’t even care that Dean called him “kid,” because Sam got it, knew that what Dean was telling him right then was that he was just the opposite.

“Yeah, I know, but you were there. That was…good.” Dean shrugged.

Sam let that soak in for a minute, disgusted with himself that he could actually feel tears well in his eyes. It happened sometimes, lately, and he guessed he could blame it on hormones, or even the weed, although he didn’t really feel like he was high anymore. He waited until he thought he could control his voice again before he spoke.

“So…not that I’m complaining or anything, but what are we doing here, Dean?”

Dean grinned and gave Sam a sly sidelong look.

“Jamie was really grateful that we got rid of her little problem,” Dean said, emphasizing the word “little” and pulling three neatly rolled joints out of his inside jacket pocket with a small flourish.

Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean and grinned a little incredulously.

“You wanna?” Dean asked. “I really don’t want to take these back to the house…”

“Um, sure,” Sam answered. He didn’t care that much about the weed one way or the other, but he’d do just about anything to stay here like this, to forestall the moment when Dean would inevitably remember that Sam was his baby brother. He wanted Dean to keep treating him like an equal, like a friend, for a little bit longer.

Dean just nodded like it was nothing out of the ordinary and pulled out his lighter. By the time they finished the first joint and started on the second, they were both lounging back on the hood of the Impala, staring up at the sky, watching the clouds of smoke drift off into the still night air.

Pretty soon Sam was feeling like an old hand at smoking up, hadn’t coughed in a while, and the effects were…really kind of nice. He was relaxed and his head was sort of floaty, like it didn’t weigh as much as normal, and even though he could feel every point of contact between his skin and the Impala’s, it didn’t seem hard or bumpy, like it normally would. It was more like he was poured there, like he was sort of…one with the car. He liked it.

“…’one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star,’” Sam said dreamily.

“Whu’?” Dean mumbled, rolling his head to the side to look at Sam.

“It’s Rilke,” Sam said, looking back.

Dean frowned a little, then snorted.

“I would say you are _so_ stoned, but it’s not like you don’t come up with weird shit like that all the time, so…”

“Shut up,” Sam said automatically, but he wasn’t mad. He looked at the spliff in his hand then took a small puff, fascinated by the way the end glowed orange as he inhaled. He let the smoke escape slowly from his mouth, watching it float above his face in a soft cloud.

Dean was suddenly there, looking down at him from above, and it didn’t seem strange when Dean started drawing the smoke into his own mouth as it left Sam’s, breathing with him, or maybe breathing for him, Sam couldn’t tell. He watched Dean carefully as he sucked the smoke in, held it a second, then blew it out, only a little left to escape by then. It was fascinating, the way he could almost see each individual smoke particle leaving Dean’s lips, even in the faint light.

“Wow,” Sam said softly, staring, and Dean smiled, took the joint from Sam’s hand.

“Yep, you’ve definitely had enough,” Dean said. He pinched the lit end from the paper and tossed the tiny bit that was left off to the side of the car, but he didn’t pull away from Sam.

Sam just waited, watching Dean’s face, didn’t care if they ever moved again. Dean was propped above him on one elbow, so close, and Sam could see every detail, every freckle, the lines of the bones underneath Dean’s skin, pale and beautiful in the starlight.

Sam could hardly breathe, Dean somehow stealing the air from his lungs just by looking at him, just by _existing_.

“Amazing,” Sam whispered, reaching for Dean with one hand, running the backs of his fingers up the line of Dean’s jaw, across his cheekbone, then just holding Dean’s face in his cupped palm, smoothing his thumb over the stubble on his chin.

“Shh,” Dean said, and Sam quieted, but Dean had closed his eyes at the touch and Sam couldn’t help thinking it— _amazing, amazing, amazing_ —and he used his hand to pull Dean closer.

There was a disconnect then, a missing moment between the time Sam’s hand pressed at the back of Dean’s neck and Dean being _there_ , his mouth on Sam’s with a gentle pressure and staying, right where Sam wanted it, and it was perfect, and all he could think was _yes, just like that_ , even though he couldn’t remember ever wanting this before. Sam closed his eyes, feeling the soft give of his brother’s lips, the slight catch of rough skin against Sam’s mouth. He decided he liked this, and he made a low encouraging noise in his throat.

Dean didn’t pull back, just drew in a quick breath through his nose, ran his tongue gently across the seam of Sam’s lips and Sam opened without thought, for once knowing exactly what to do, and it wasn’t awkward at all. He touched his tongue tentatively to Dean’s and Dean groaned.

Sam thrilled at the heady power of it, being able to draw that noise out of Dean, felt the tingle in his groin, the blood rushing to his cock. He kept thinking there was something wrong about this, but he didn’t know what it could be. It felt good. They should keep doing things that felt good.

Maybe Dean agreed, because he shifted his body higher so that he was almost on top of Sam and that was really good too, especially when Dean threw one of his legs across Sam so that it put pressure against his increasingly hard dick. His hips jerked upward slightly and Dean grunted and ground down against him, and that was amazing. He thought ‘amazing’ might just be his new favorite word.

Dean pulled back then, their lips making a soft smacking noise when they parted, and Dean shifted, lying more fully on top of Sam. Sam wrapped his arms around him reflexively, smoothed his hands up and down Dean’s back as Dean buried his face in Sam’s neck, nuzzling, and Sam thought _amazing_ one more time, but all that came out of his mouth was a sort of breathy moan. There was a soft stir against his throat then, definitely wet, and it took Sam longer than it should have to realize it was _Dean’s tongue_ but the thought lit him up, made him twist under Dean, hold Dean’s body tighter to his.

“Oh, fuck…good…” Sam mumbled into Dean’s neck and Dean hummed, rubbed his face against Sam’s like a cat, nuzzling his jaw, sucking at his neck until they were both breathing hard, Sam making incoherent groans against Dean’s hair. Everything was slow, but so intense, and it was nearly too much for Sam.

“God, Dean…love you so much,” Sam panted, before his brain could kick in and stop him, but now that they were out there, he couldn’t wish the words unsaid. Dean’s breath hitched but he didn’t answer, just ground his hips hard against Sam’s and Sam whimpered, wrapped one leg around the back of Dean’s to keep him there.

They rutted and pushed against each other and Sam didn’t know what to do with his hands, his mouth, so he just went with it, getting a little wild as he kissed and sucked at Dean’s neck, his jaw, his lips, taking in the sensation and greedy for more wherever he came into contact with skin. He slid his hands up under Dean’s shirt just to feel him, rubbed his hard dick against the line of Dean’s through their jeans, thrilling when Dean moaned, gasped, “Oh, fuck…right there.”

Sam reveled in the hot weight of his brother’s body against his, in the way Dean wanted him, and he soaked up Dean’s attentions like rain on desert ground. Sam didn’t want this to ever stop, wanted to just live here until he could process all of it—the smell of Dean, musky male scent mixed with warm leather, the sweet grassy tang he could taste on Dean’s mouth, the welcome silky slide of Dean’s tongue against Sam’s own.

Then Sam’s hips strained up hard and sudden with no instruction from his brain, and he was coming hot and wet in his jeans, making helpless little grunting noises against Dean’s shoulder, Dean holding himself still and letting Sam grind against him however he wanted until he was done.

“Yeah…oh, yeah…gorgeous, God…” Dean rasped softly as Sam finished, and Sam opened his eyes, still panting, heart pounding and weak with the warm pleasure of his orgasm. He gasped as Dean bore down harder against him, pressing his cock into the groove of Sam’s hip, over and over in a quickening rhythm.

Dean made a helpless, hurt little noise and came, going perfectly still, eyes scrunched shut. Sam watched his face, fascinated, unable to look away from how utterly, unearthly beautiful his brother was at that moment. _I’ll never forget this,_ he thought.

Dean rolled off of Sam as soon as he was done, laid out flat on his back on the hood of the Impala, panting for a few minutes before heaving a deep, satisfied sigh. Then he simply got up and slid into the driver’s seat without saying another word. Sam followed his example, climbed into the passenger seat silently, wondering where they went from here. _What’s supposed to happen next?_

 _Guess ‘shotgun’ has a new meaning now_ , Sam thought, a little hysterically, then his nerves settled. Nothing seemed different inside the car—it smelled the same, felt the same, sounded the same, and Sam was comforted.

Sam’s internal world might have slipped sideways, but some things were constant.

As they drove the rest of the way home, Dean didn’t look at Sam, but he seemed relaxed, like he was okay with everything, and Sam, as always, took his cues from his big brother. He watched Dean out of the corner of his eye as he drove, and thought how beautiful Dean was, how strong and amazing and perfect. He could blame that on the pot, he guessed, except it wasn’t the first time he’d had those thoughts, so maybe being stoned just made it easier to accept.

And that had been it for Sam, really, a defining moment. It was the first time they’d ever done anything like that, but it wasn’t the last, and everything changed between them after that. They never talked about it, of course they didn’t, but no matter how bad things got, they always had each other for comfort.

Years later he could still see it in his mind, exactly how Dean had looked in the glow from the dashlights as he drove them home that night. And later Sam would love Jessica too, deeply—but Dean never stopped being the center of his orbit, his touchstone.

Sam fell into Hell, but he never fell out of love with his brother.

***

 

The year before Dean went to hell had been the worst year of Sam’s life, of course it had been. Dean’s decree that Sam forget about the deal, do nothing to stop it, was bullshit, plain and simple. Sam wasn’t built that way and Dean knew it better than anybody, but somehow all of Sam’s determination had come to nothing. They were almost at the end of Dean’s year and Sam had stumbled through it in a daze, like he was fumbling in the dark at the edge of a cliff, knowing he was getting closer to a drop-off he couldn’t see.

Some time during that last year the thing they had between them had changed, too, had stopped being about sex, or comfort, or whatever it was about before, and became about Sam’s all-consuming drive to have all of Dean. His need to get behind the mask and see, hold onto as much of Dean as he could grasp. Bust through the bullshit.

And Sam can’t put his finger on when it happened, but there was another breaking point too, a time when it stopped being about that even, some unseen line that Sam crossed when he starting pressing Dean harder, pushing him, desperate to grind some of himself into Dean’s very being, like a tattoo artist embedding ink into flesh with the touch of a needle.

You have to break the skin to leave a mark.

***

In the wake of the Doc Benton debacle, so near the end of Dean’s last year before Hell, Sam had nearly lost what was left of his sanity, maybe left it locked away somewhere, like the creepy doctor’s still-living body inside the old freezer chest.

Sam held it together until they got away from the cabin and out of the woods, partly riding the adrenaline rush, but also not wanting to say anything to Dean at that point, because arguing in the car…well, he mostly tried to avoid getting into the heavy shit with Dean when there was no escape route, unless it was part of his plan to use that to his advantage, when there was just no other way to get through Dean’s thick skull except to make him a captive audience. Which happened more often than Sam would like.

But that night, worn down from a year of trying to figure out how to save Dean and getting nowhere—and even more miserable from having to hide what he was doing from Dean himself—Sam just didn’t have it in him. He didn’t have the energy and he didn’t have the words. Dean had said it all, really, shot down his last best hope, and Sam was…done.

Dean pulled in someplace and they stumbled into some random room like a thousand times before. What did it matter what it looked like?

Sam sat down heavily on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. He stank of Benton’s lair, skin tacky with dried fear-sweat, and his eyes felt like they’d actually been scooped out of their sockets, rolled around on the floor, and popped back in. Not that Sam wasn’t thankful to still have two good eyes, but that was about all he could muster any gratitude for.

He was desperately disappointed. The doctor’s formula, his scheme, was iffy and disgusting and just plain wrong, but it had given Sam hope, painful as it was. Like swallowing against a sore throat, the hope felt good and it hurt, and Sam couldn’t stop doing it if he tried, so.

But now, with that little flicker of optimism gone, Sam sat and wondered if he might just fall asleep right here, sitting up on the side of the too-hard bed. It wouldn’t matter—he was completely numb.

Except he wasn’t, apparently, because he realized suddenly that Dean had stopped fidgeting around with his bag or whatever and had come to stand beside him.

Sam dropped his hands, let them dangle between his knees in a gesture of surrender, and he didn’t look up at Dean, couldn’t. All his promises to save Dean were bullshit and there’s no way he could look his brother in the eye knowing that.

Dean dropped a warm, rough hand across the back of Sam’s neck, gave it a firm squeeze.

Sam sighed raggedly and a shudder rattled through his body at the touch. Dean settled carefully down beside him like he was afraid of startling Sam, like a too-sudden movement might cause him to bolt, or to break. Sam wasn’t sure Dean was wrong about that.

Dean sat with one leg crooked up onto the bed behind Sam’s hip, so he could get both hands on Sam. He started moving his hands over Sam’s shoulders and neck, rubbing lightly, not massaging, just applying steady pressure over the muscles there. Sam hadn’t realized until that moment that he was strung so tightly, had thought he was too wrung out for tension, but the light touch felt like heaven.

Then Dean stretched forward and lifted Sam’s hair off the back of his neck, began pressing his lips to the sensitive skin, soft little sucking kisses that made Sam moan and drop his head to bare as much skin as possible. Sam just wallowed in it for a minute, wanting Dean, wanting to forget.

This wasn’t really new between them, of course, at the heart of it—they’d turned to each other for comfort plenty of times, but this past year had been…intense. Dean had gone suddenly tactile, laying a casual hand against the small of Sam’s back, brushing shoulders in a check-out line at a convenience store, just touching Sam all the time like a blind man reassuring himself that his guide was still there—it was the one thing that was better since Dean’s deal.

Dean was letting Sam in.

But right now he was seeking something from Sam—forgiveness…reassurance…Sam didn’t know. Finally, Sam sighed heavily and reached back over his shoulder for Dean, pulled his head toward him and kissed him, flicking his tongue out for little tastes of Dean’s mouth, kissed deeply into him like he could make all the distance and barriers between them disappear. And the way Dean opened to it—like it was nothing and everything, gave it all back to Sam slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world—a surge of anger boiled up from Sam’s gut and he growled, ducking his shoulder and turning toward Dean, clutching at his shirt, pulling him up hard against his chest. He suddenly wanted to hurt Dean, to bite and tear until Dean listened, until he acknowledged what was happening.

Dean wouldn’t though, couldn’t. He’d give everything he was first, like he was doing now, lying back on the bed and pulling Sam after him, on top of him, putting himself out on the table like some sort of consolation prize, a peace offering for stubbornly refusing to let Sam save him.

The thought slowed Sam’s hands, gentled his touch. Maybe Sam needed this. And maybe Dean needed to give it, too, so Sam swallowed his disappointment, forced down the old, festering anger, and just went with it, kissing Dean back, biting at his throat, sucking his lower lip between his own, listening to Dean’s little moans and caught breaths, soaking up the too-familiar sounds of his brother. He breathed him in, wanting to remember the smell of sweat and the unique scent of Dean’s skin that curled thick in Sam’s sinuses, even while the faint odor of rot left from Benton’s lair lingered. They never escaped it, anyway, him and Dean, never would—the miasma of death.

When Dean pulled away from him, reached to turn off the lamp, Sam said, “No” and Dean didn’t argue, just left it on and laid back on the bed, waiting, willing sacrifice to Sam’s desires, and yeah, that did something to Sam, always had, but this was different.

Sam stripped him carefully but efficiently, Dean only helping by lifting his hips, raising his arms, more pliant than Sam had ever seen him, like it was taking all his focus and energy to keep his eyes on Sam’s face, staring like he wanted to memorize every pore, and Sam ached from the emotion he saw in Dean’s eyes.

Dean scanned his face and understood it, took it all into himself with a calm acceptance, the time for teasing over between them. Everything they did was serious now, each act feeling too much like the last one, and Sam went hot all over, could hardly breathe.

The sight of Dean’s bare chest stirred an almost vicious urge in Sam to mark him—he wanted to brand himself into Dean’s skin—and deeper even, carve it into his bones, to show Hell that they couldn’t have his brother. Show Dean that he couldn’t just leave, to make Dean feel it, feel _Sam_.

He jerked Dean’s jeans and underwear the rest of the way off and flung them aside. Leaning in he pushed Dean’s legs apart and up, rubbed his face against the inside of Dean’s thigh and downward, nuzzling into the crease of his leg, feeling Dean’s fine trembling against his cheek. Sam slipped two fingers into his own mouth and brought them out wet, pressed them carefully into Dean.

Fingers inside the slick, clinging heat of Dean’s body, so warm and welcoming, and Sam couldn’t work his way in like he really wanted, only so far and no farther, but the way Dean just _gave_ , trusted him like it was nothing—it took his breath away, every time.

Sam raised himself on trembling arms then and realized he’d forgotten about lube, wondered what the hell was wrong with him, but Dean just shook his head.

“Got you, Sammy,” he murmured and reared up, folded his body in half, sucking Sam’s cock suddenly and forcefully into his mouth. The shock of soft, wet heat drew a punched-out groan from somewhere deep in Sam’s chest and he curled his body down over Dean, smoothing his hands over Dean’s bare back, as Dean sucked him wet and sloppy for a few long seconds, then flopped back down on the bed.

“Do it,” Dean rasped. “Just like this…just you and me,” Dean finished, nodding like he was trying to reassure Sam and Sam just…lost it.

Sam hooked Dean’s knees over his elbows and gathered him up, pushed inside him quick before Dean’s spit cooling on his cock could dry completely. Dean grunted, but Sam thrust hard and bottomed out inside him, giving no quarter, knowing Dean neither expected nor wanted any. It was tight and hot and amazing, just like every time before, but the best part, the part Sam never forgot even years later, was the look on Dean’s face. Dean looked raw, like his soul was laid open, vulnerable and trusting, always trusting Sam.

Orgasm hit Sam like an ending, and Dean tightened around him, pulled him down and close, their bodies flush and Dean’s arms around him, clinging desperately, and if Dean’s face was wet where it squeezed tight against Sam’s cheek, neither of them ever mentioned it.

***

Sam drives away from Dean, after the djinn are dead, leaves Dean standing in his hunter’s garb in front of his incongruously normal-looking house. The place has fucking flowers in the front yard, for Christ’s sake, and somehow that’s the part that always sticks in Sam’s craw, like Dean having a manicured lawn is somehow symbolic of everything that’s wrong with this picture.

When Dean said he wasn’t coming with him, Sam played it off as casually as he could, but it was all already starting to bleed through the walls he’d built, all the old feelings—the pain and the want, along with the good. And it _was_ good, working with Dean again, but it hurt, too.

It’s too difficult to feel anything, when he’s managed to shut that off for so long now. The torment of having Dean close but not quite close enough, alongside the comfort of renewed partnership—that had clawed at his barriers until they were scraped thin, as it was—but then Dean offered him the Impala.

 _DW and SW_. Jesus Christ, of course he remembers.

Walking away is agonizing, in that moment, but staying is…impossible.

He’s been back at the Campbell compound for about half an hour when he has to step out. It’s too many bodies, too close inside the old warehouse, big as it is, and he needs some air. Outside the door, he scrubs his hands over his face and up through his hair, breathing in and out forcefully, trying to settle his mind.

This was what he was trying to avoid all these months, knew instinctively that if he saw Dean face to face again it was going to be like this. Something inside Sam has torn open, something he’s kept sewed up tight for almost a year, memories spilling over and poisoning him, roiling in his gut, as bitter as bile.

 _This is why_ , he thinks. This is why feeling nothing is so much better.

An old memory brushes across his mind like a ghost… _I can’t do this alone_ …and Sam lets a bitter chuckle escape. He looks for somewhere to sit and finally leans against the trunk of the Charger, momentarily regretting its short profile.

 _There’s a lot to be said for history_ , Sam thinks. He gets up and walks back inside.


End file.
